Category: My stories

Two Hundred Grapes

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She waved a bony hand over the glass, refilling it with wine.
The demon she’d summoned was a gossip. He’d have told her anything, even without the wine.
“I just enjoy the company,” he said. “But the wine helps.”
“Tell me more,” says the witch. “Please,” she added.
“There’s nothing more to say,” says the demon. His red, scaly hand wraps its talons around the glass, raises it to black lips over yellowed fangs, and he sips. “What’s new with you?”
She nodded, broke the circle around his chair with a heel, and they had a nice quiet evening together.

Get a clown

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If you need a birthday clown, you look in the Yellow Pages for one.
On the other hand, if you need a demon clown, you draw a pentagram with silly string and sacrifice a balloon animal.
It’s not easy spraying a decent pentagram with that stuff, but with a little practice and a steady hand you’ll have your clown army of darkness.
Why you want a clown army of darkness, I won’t ask. I just teach these summoning spells. What they’re used for, it’s not my problem.
Here’s a can of silly string, a balloon, and my spellbook.
Good luck.

When you wish upon a shotgun

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I was rubbing the barrel of an old shotgun when a genie came out of it.
“Shouldn’t you be in a lamp or a bottle?” I asked.
“I was drunk,” he said.
He’s offered me three wishes, but would you accept wishes from a genie who can’t find a decent lamp to live in?
Especially one who’s a drunk.
And, boy, does this genie drink.
“I thought you cleaned the shotgun,” he slurs. “Man does this place stink!”
“You’re not in the shotgun,” I say. “You’re up my dog’s ass.”
So, once again, I’ll trade you for that monkey’s paw.

Zaleski

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There is a package on my desk.
Inside rests the most unusual trophy I’ve ever seen.
Silver loving cup, red marble base, and a odd figurine mounted on the top. Two javelins pierce its chest, and it holds what looks like an electric coffeepot in its left hand, right fist to the sky in triumph.
Engraved on the base is the word “ZALESKI.”
Is this a name?
Is this a sport?
What have I done to earn this?
I place it on my desk, raise a fist, and shout “ZALESKI!”
My officemates shout “ZALESKI!” and we go back to work.

Dustsucker

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We used to clean these buildings by hanging a scaffold for guiding men with powerwashers and squeegies.
Now, we release Dustsucker Beasts on the ground, and they slide up the building to the top floor, leaving a streak of clean windows and bricks.
The trainer then leashes each beast, rides the elevator back down, and starts again.
It takes a third of the time and, when you consider insurance costs, much cheaper.
Until some idiot left a window open and wanted to pet a Beast.
So furry, so cute.
So acidic.
Inside rubber gloves, the trainer’s burnt, scarred fingers clench.

Obsidian Falls

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Obsidian Falls is really in Oklahoma, but through a surveyor’s error and a history of stubborn city councilors, they remained a Kansas municipality.
Mapmakers never could find a solution that satisfied the residents. Usually, they’d mark the region as Oklahoma, include Obsidian Falls on Oklahoma maps, and ignore the protests and death threats.
So, Obsidian Falls moved.
Every brick, every tree, every sidewalk and every fence.
It took over a year to complete, block by block vanishing and reappearing 3 miles North.
The surveyor didn’t have the heart to tell them they were still 2 miles short of their goal.

Daisy 5.1

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Daisy looked in the mirror and made a list of everything wrong:
Hips wide.
Gangly. Matchstick arms.
Freckles.
Thin hair.
Yuck.
And the chest. She said B, not D.
“No” she says.
A doctor nods, and the umbilical disconnects.
Back in the jar, her brain linked up the body catalog and browsed the new styles.
She’d always wanted green eyes.
“Maybe I’ll wait for Spring,” she thought.
The simulator worked up a sketch, and she scanned it for an hour before authorizing a growtank to begin.
Another tank quietly recycled Daisy 5.1, crediting her account and waiting for another order.

Battle

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Thop, Demon Storm of Arrows, watched his followers gather at the Canyon Fortress of Mists and grinned.
“Tonight, they will celebrate your doom,” he said to Shishksnikt, who was smiling at his own forces.
His Twenty Fists made their way along the rockfaces, sword on their backs.
“Warriors fight, warriors die,” he responded. “Your cowards and their toys are no match for steel.”
Behind them both, The Grim Reaper sharpened his blade and nodded. “I guess I’ll have to cancel my dinner plans!” he trilled. “Souffle tomorrow night, boys?”
Thop and Shishksnikt sighed. Next time they’d just flip a coin.

Country Music Star

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There’s a country music star on television.
She’s standing there with a guitar, but she doesn’t play the guitar.
She doesn’t play anything.
Doesn’t write anything either. Someone else writes the songs.
She doesn’t even sing her own songs. Someone else sings them for her and she just mouths the words.
That’s not even her up there. Someone stood in for her, and nobody noticed the difference.
When she won a Grammy, she didn’t bother showing up to the ceremony to pick it up.
They filed a missing persons report that night.
She was never found.
Isn’t this music great?

Hangover

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How many shots of tequila did I drink?
Five?
Six?
I can’t remember.
But what I do know is that I feel the worst I’ve ever felt.
I always remember how bad I feel.
So what I will do is wait until I feel better, then I will do five shots of tequila.
When I wake up hung over, I can then compare how bad I feel then to how bad I feel now.
If it’s the same, then I know I had five shots of tequila.
If it’s not, then I know I had six.
Pass me the bottle.